The Art of Flying
by Kitskune Miyake
Summary: "This note is a mess." "Note?" "It was supposed to be my note. They usually write notes, don't they?" "For what?"
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, lovelies! New fic after so long, and finally a return to the Young Justice fandom. Hope you enjoy, at least on some level.**

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><p><em>"Flying is simply throwing yourself at the ground and falling with style."<em>

It was a state of the art, sleek iPhone 7. It wasn't on the market and wouldn't be coming out until the next year, but yet here it was in Nightwing's shaking hand. No, Dick Grayson's. He wasn't Nightwing anymore, not by a longshot. He wasn't worthy of the name he picked for himself. The standard was just too high for him to reach. Trying to play with the real heroes… what chance did he have trying to be like them?

He looked at the city below him. Gotham pulsed with life, the traffic slow but steadily moving, the street lamps illuminating all everywhere but the darkest corners. People hurried home, hoping to avoid an encounter with any one of Gotham's unsavoury denizens. These were the people, he used to protect, as Robin and as Nightwing. These people generally loved him and Batman. Because of him, their city was safe. He laughed melancholically to himself.

Because of him… what a joke.

How many lives had he screwed up in his quest for glory among the real heroes? How many branches had he stepped on and broken as he climbed his way to the stars, only to fall short when it mattered most? What was his real legacy? Damaged property? Fear in the blood of the people? Rusty stains against the concrete as upstart supervillains used his people as a means to make a statement? Sure, a few lives saved here and there, but at what cost?

Was it really worth it?

He considered not leaving anything behind. He had burned his bridges with both Batman and Bruce. There was no way he didn't hate Dick's guts. Not after Bialya. Not after Jason.

Jason.

_Red. Red red everywhere. Fire blazing too hot to feel anything except heat. His face was on fire as he tried to pull past the debris in search of something – anything – to prove he was wrong, that Jason had made it out alive and hadn't… hadn't…_

_A cape, torn at the edge. So he was wrong._

Dick let out a sob, wrenching himself from the painful memory. He looked back over the edge, toeing it to the point where he was perfectly balanced on one foot, the other leg stretched out 90 degrees behind him to form a perfect T-shape from his body. He held himself at a balance on the edge. As a former acrobat and current solo hero, he maintained perfect balance. He found comfort in the fact that on such a stable surface he wouldn't fall over because of his own ineptitude. Oh, how easy it would be to push just a little further and fall down. Down down down…

For a moment, he found clarity as he looked over the edge. The lights that glowed below. The pulse of life that seemed to run through Gotham even in the shittiest of times. His head was empty except for the pounding of blood at his temples, the constant reminder that, at least for now, he was alive. No sound, no noise, no fire or no blood or no red. Just the quiet as he looked over the edge. It was like as if he was coming home, greeted by the emptiness and freedom that came from achieving equilibrium both physically and mentally. He could have stayed like that forever.

But nothing lasts forever, and he was still here in the shitty present, staring over the edge of the building, contemplating whether it was worth leaving a note. After all, there wouldn't really be anyone who would need to read it. Batman was the modern Sherlock fucking Holmes; he could figure it out. And the Team? They could get it from him. Would they even miss him, their brilliant leader who couldn't protect the newest hero?

The glint of the iPhone caught his eye. Right. It was still there. He was supposed to do something with it. He turned it over, unlocking it with a simple PIN. The contacts were open to "Wally West." Right. There was always him. Wally, who always cared more than everyone else, a stipulation of being best friends. Maybe… maybe he deserved to know a little more.

Without thinking, his fingers were already dancing across the screen, dialing the number. The sound of the dial tone twittering as the call connected. A click as Wally answered.

"Y'ello? What's up, Dick?"

"Am I useless?" His voice was on the edge of tears, a choked whisper into the night.

He let out a strangled laugh, almost too quickly. "That's an awfully weird way to start a conversation." He wasn't very good at pretending like he didn't care.

"Answer the question."

"I—where are you?"

"Answer. The. Question." Dick was insistent, almost fanatical. His voice cracked on the last word, and he barely held back the sob in his throat.

"Dick…" Wally's voice faded. "Dick, what's going on?"

"Why do you always dodge the question?" Dick snapped. Silence. "Just do what I ask. Please."

"No." He paused, calculating his words as if calculating the right formula to prevent an unstable concoction from exploding. "You're one of the best people I know. You… there's no way you can be, _could_ be… useless."

"Liar." A pulse of silence. "I'm sorry." The blood roared in his ears. He squatted on the edge of the building, mindlessly waving his hand in front of him, as if trying to wipe some stain off the Gotham skyline with his own hand.

"Where are you?" Wally insisted. He felt his heart quicken. Dick had been acting weird after… after Bialya, but that wasn't his fault. That was the Joker, Jason for not listening, everyone else for getting caught and not being able to go in for Jason and… it just wasn't Dick's fault. No way.

"I'm sorry for being so useless."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"It's an apology. I was wrong. I'm no hero."

"Bullshit."

"I'm a fake."

"Dick-"

"Everything I did, it was all… it was luck. Everything fell into place just so I could look good. Jason… he was my test, and I failed. I failed so miserably." He let out a melancholic laugh, like the final note of a dying performer. "I played with fire, and someone else got burned. I'm a farce. An insult."

"No." Wally jumped to his feet and started searching for a jacket. "Where are you?" God dammit, where was that jacket?

"Tell the Team… tell everyone… that this is my atonement. Jason wasn't the mistake: I was." Tears were running down his cheeks. He sniffled and wiped away the salty liquid.

"Shut up, you idiot. Dumbass, you were the first sidekick. You worked alongside Batman for what how long? Seven, eight years before going solo? Are you saying that eight years was a lie?" He stopped, giving time for Dick to actually listen to him. "You're good, Dick. You're a hero."

"No hero loses a life so easily."

"You're so full of shit," Wally barked harshly. Dick pulled back from the phone. "You protect Gotham City, hell on earth. How many lives have you lost? How many lives has Batman lost? Hella more than you, right?"

"Those were out of our control. This… I could have prevented this." And even to his ears it sounded wrong. Because Wally was right, but it wasn't registering because it didn't feel right. All the lives he lost before were neatly filed away, weighing on his conscience but not haunting him like this. He remembered Jason's cold stare and sarcastically deadpanned "Yes, sir," the last communication they shared. He remembered Jason's lifeless eyes, the first thing to greet him as he dug through the rubble—damn the flames—in search of Jason, a Jason that could maybe have been alive.

"Wanna hear a story?" The world seemed to stop. The flashback seemed to stop as he snapped back into reality and suddenly found himself back on the roof of Wayne Tower. Wally took Dick's silence as assent. "It was my second year as Kid Flash. A hostage situation in Central City, held up by Captain Boomerang of all people. Flash was doing League business at the time,—that fucking moment—so Central and Keystone were mine to protect.

"There they were: was a grandmother and a ten year old boy and his grandmother. They both had these brilliant green eyes, and the grandma had the cutest sweater in the world. I got everyone out except for them before… God, I don't even remember what happened. I think a brick hit me in the head? Fucking concussion from a fucking brick of all things. A fucking _brick_ cost me those two lives. Forget fire and explosions and shrapnel. A fucking _brick_.

"They haunt me every fucking day. And Jason's gonna haunt you, too, but it's not the end of world. You take your ghosts and… and you just let them serve as an inspiration to do better, not as a reminder of failure. You can't keep thinking like this. Dick, you gotta get out of your head pull yourself out of it."

"I… I can't…" And he sounded so fucking weak and pathetic, hardly the swaggering Robin or Nightwing or Dick Grayson. Why? Why was Jason of all people weighing on his brain conscience like this? It was never like this with the other people.

Wally broke the silence. "What made Jason so special?"

Silence.

"Dick?"

"Yeah?"

"Answer the fucking question."

"I don't—"

"If every other life you lost weighed on you this heavily, you would have quit a long time ago. So what made Jason so special that you're fucking asking me these questions?" Dick had hated Jason, and vice versa. The two didn't get along very well, though they were very good at pretending like that they could tolerate the other's presence around Batman. Well, Bruce already knew they hated each other, but he didn't tolerate their arguing while on duty.

"I… don't know."

"How come?"

"I just don't, okay?!" But that was a lie. Because he knew now. Because every other life they lost was impersonal in his brain, a reminder to be more careful and move on. Jason… Jason was Robin. A title he held. He was Robin. He was Jason. And seeing Jason go out in a fiery blaze like that… that fucked him up.

Dick Grayson wasn't depressed or haunted. He was scared. For himself.

And it wasn't right, because he's Nightwing, a son of the Bat. Crippling fear wasn't in his nature. Even facing down the most desperate of situations, even after watching the light behind people's eyes diminish at the hands of the Penguin or the Joker, he hadn't been afraid. He was determined, stoic, anything but fearful. It was ridiculous. It wasn't him. It wasn't right.

"I—I don't have the answers. I'm just… I'm just a mess." He let out a shaky laugh that only seemed to highlight his despair. He couldn't tell Wally what was going on in his head. He wouldn't understand. Hell, he didn't even understand. "Fuck, this note is a mess."

"Note?"

"It was supposed to be my note. They usually write notes, don't they?"

"For what?" But both the drop in Wally's tone and the faint click of a door in the background gave away his understanding of the situation. He knew exactly what this was about.

"Goodbye, Wally."

"Fuck, no. DICK!—"

He hung up.

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><p>He looked over the ledge. One hundred and twenty. That was the number of stories between him and the ground. For a moment, he stopped thinking, simply stared at the city below him, perched precariously on the ledge like a bird of prey. He stopped considering everything around him and simply thought about the one hundred and twenty flights between him and the ground. He closed his eyes,<p>

_1…_ inhaled,

_2…_ held for a second,

_3…_ exhaled,

And fell forward.

When he opened his eyes, the ground was fast approaching, but everything felt like it was slowing down. He could smell the acidic air of Gotham, the air that had long poisoned his system with smog and city pollution. Even the whoosh in his ears was non-existent. His thoughts seemed to be going at light speed as he made a few quick calculations.

He then realized why falling had been so appealing as he had looked over the edge.

He felt like a bird. Free.

He was flying.

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><p>Wally's feet pounded against the cement—now dirt, now cement again—as he bolted towards Gotham. He didn't know where his friend was, not in the least, but he had a feeling. Because there was something about Gotham that gave everyone—not just the supervillains—a penchant for style and meaning. Though his friend would never admit it, he was ridiculously flamboyant, what with all the flips and shit. There was no way that he wouldn't… he wouldn't try anything this stupid without trying to sneak a little symbolism into it.<p>

That, and Wayne Tower was the tallest building in the city. Almost guaranteed death.

_Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump_. His feet pounded against the pavement, racing the invisible clock with no idea of the time. _Zipzipzip_. Where the fuck was Gotham again? Fucking hell, he really should have paid attention; this was a matter of utter importance.

The air went from clean and country-like to Gotham-levels of pollution. Yes, he was in the right place! Now it was only a matter of time 'til he reached Dick.

Wayne Tower was a little easier to find since it was the tallest building. He zipped through the streets, damn the consequences. Batman can beat him to a bloody pulp for trespassing later, but right now he was on a mission. He vaguely realized that he wasn't wearing a mask and was using his powers.

Oh well.

By the time he got there he was too late. He was two streets away, Wayne Tower clear in view, when Dick started falling forward and falling fast. His heart stopped, but he couldn't let his body follow suit. His feet pumped along the concrete, reaching the building a fraction faster than his normal speed. He could feel adrenaline pumping through his system.

It was too late now. He couldn't stop the fall, but he could damn well prevent the ending.

As he ran forward, his brain calculated at light speed. At the speeds he was going now, he couldn't brake safely and still reach Dick in time to catch he sped up. It was a risky move, but it was crazy enough to work. It had to be. He couldn't afford for it _not_ to.

He zoomed past the people, managing to easily clear a path between nearly-still bodies that pointed and gaped at the falling body. The wall was perfectly vertical, modern and slick. Wally cursed in his head, but he wouldn't allow himself to assume the worst. Assume the worst, and the fate would already be decided.

The moment of truth.

With a short distance between him and the wall, he planted his foot firmly against the concrete and launched himself forward and upward, angling his body so he could plant his foot against the wall with ease. It was a last-resort maneuver, a way to reroute inertia and gravity so neither he nor Dick would die. He ran up the wall, trying to line up with Dick's falling, unresisting body.

There!

He decelerated slightly and sprung from the wall, fueled by his passions, his fear, his anger at his friend. If he timed it right, he could catch Dick and take the brunt of the fall. At least this way, there'd be time to decelerate so the sheer force of the fall wouldn't crush Dick's bones. It'd hurt like hell, and they wouldn't get off scot-free, but it was better than suddenly stopping the force by trying to catch him.

He reached forward for Dick. The timing was almost movie-esque. Even at super-speed, time seemed to slow down. Then Dick turned his head, meeting Wally's gaze with bright blue eyes, and his heart stopped again. He grabbed for Dick. Even if he could get a grip on his sweater it would be enough. This time, his body faltered. Wally watched with horror as Dick Grayson—his best friend, his inspiration, his sanity when everything went to shit—slipped between his fingertips.

Amidst the commotion, no one noticed a broken cell phone, its screen shattered from its impact.

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><p><strong>I feel the need for a happy alternative ending... Please review!<strong>


	2. Alternate Happy Ending

Thank you so much for the fantastic feedback, guys! You really are the reason I love writing and continue to write for this fandom. Anyways, here's the happy ending, starting after Dick hung up on Wally.

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><p>Dick looked over the skyline again, twirling the phone in his hand. He had unknowingly paced away from the ledge as he talked to Wally, a habit ingrained long ago. Wally's words stuck with him, and he felt sick from the conversation. He regretted calling the speedster. He was too perceptive, too straightforward. But he couldn't think back on those cutting words now.<p>

He wandered back to the edge, standing on the ledge again. He opened his arms to the winds whipping around him, like a bird ready to take flight. Right. He was here for a reason. For escape. For freedom. For flight.

He turned the phone over again, but in a moment it slipped through fingers. He watched it as if in slow motion as it fell beyond that his grasp and tumbled down... down…

Down.

He swallowed the lump as the phone grew smaller in his vision and eventually disappeared. He expected that it would be hitting the ground soon. Eventually. Like him. Right.

Dick crouched like a swimmer on the diving block. No, that didn't feel right. What about falling backwards? He turned around and backed up slightly, his heels hanging off the ledge. No, that didn't feel right either. He stepped forward and turned around again, assuming the almost messianic pose he initially stood in. This was getting ridiculous. He was here for a purpose. Why was he stalling so much? He closed his eyes and exhaled deeply, steeling his nerves. Easily, almost ridiculously so, he pushed off the ledge and fell forward.

The moment his feet left the building, he felt wrong. The calm that he felt looking over the edge had evaporated, leaving only a sickness that seemed to pool in his stomach and radiate outwards. He wanted to throw up. Fuck, this wasn't the answer. _Too fucking late now_, he mused melancholically. Man, was he an idiot.

It was exactly like the movies, except it wasn't. Time felt slow, his body felt heavy as he fell, regretting the choice to fall with every passing millisecond. He scrambled for the grappling gun tucked inside his jacket, thankful that it was there. When he had left the house for what he thought was the last time, he wasn't sure why he kept it in his jacket. As the world fell slowly and his body moved even slower, his mind jumped to the conclusion that even in that moment he hadn't wanted to die, and that made him feel even more miserable.

Somehow he wrestled the gun from his jacket and shot it upwards aiming for the ledge. It was a familiar maneuver, hammered into his subconscious after having to do it so many times. Which is why he could feel his heart sink into the pit of his stomach when he saw the hook overshoot the ledge. Maybe it was a product of panic, a derivative of despair, but he didn't care because all it meant was that he was falling and nothing would catch him. His eyes widened at the realization. _He was going to die_. He closed his eyes. Tears traced down his cheek.

Suddenly he felt the rope go taut. A searing pain shot through his arm, and he nearly lost his grip on the gun. No. He had missed. Not like he was disappointed to be alive, but he shouldn't have been. He felt his dead weight being pulled upwards. He scrambled towards the wall of the building in an attempt to help pull himself up, to no avail. Eventually, he was at the lip of the building, face to face with none other than Wallace Rudolph West.

The two of them crashed onto the roof, though Dick barely felt the impact. Wally's arms locked around his torso, holding him in a vice grip. "Idiot. Goddamn idiot. Fuck you, you bastard, why the fuck were you even-God, I hate you so much right now."

"Wally?"

"Goddamn it, don't scare me like that, bastard. I could fucking kill you right now." The words went straight into his shoulder, Wally's face muffled against his back. He could feel wetness seep past the cloth. His friend was crying, muting his sobs into his body. He felt pathetic.

"I was wrong."

"Damn right you were."

"I don't wanna die." He felt tears leak from his eyes. Now he was crying too.

"Nobody does."

"I was-" The word was sickening on his tongue. He didn't want to admit it, even to his best friend.

"Scared?" He nodded in reply. "Dumbass, that's normal. Nobody in their right mind wants to die." Wally wiped his face against his shoulder. "Ah geez, what a mess, crying like a five-year-old."

"Yeah," Dick agreed, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. He tried to smile, but he was tired. So tired. Without the adrenaline flooding his system his body felt heavy. "I-sorry." His tongue was lead in his mouth now. Talking took too much effort, but somehow that one word seemed to carry the weight of everything that needed to be said. He pressed his head into Wally's chest and whined slightly, the sound humming lightly in his throat. "'m tired."

Wally laughed softly, a sound of relief more than joy. He ran his hand through Dick's hair. "Same here." It was over, at least for now. They'd have the consequences to deal with later. Batman knew, or would know, what happened, no question; they were just waiting for the other metaphorical shoe to drop. Dick would probably get questioned and punished or otherwise restricted, and Wally didn't want to admit it, but he was secretly happy about that. He wanted Dick safe, and as far as he knew, this was the best route. It would be everything that he didn't get.

But he didn't want to think of long, painful talks and unavoidable emotional breakdowns. All he wanted to think about was his best friend curled up in his arms, a poor, broken boy who needed attention. Dick had fallen asleep, his entire body relaxing in the comforting arms of his friend. Wally felt the corners of his lips rise. Yes, those thoughts could wait. All that mattered was that the two of them were alive, that he still had the friend closest to him close to him. What more could he ask for?

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><p>Sinceriously, please leave a review :D Reviews give me life.<p> 


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